


peaches in the summertime

by procrastibaker



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 08:05:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8659180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastibaker/pseuds/procrastibaker
Summary: “Cupcakes? Really, Bittle?”

  Bitty startles, tripping backwards right into—fuck, right into Jack, whose strong hands grip his elbows to keep him from falling. Bitty wrenches himself from Jack’s grasp and turns around just as Jack says, “aren’t you a little too drunk to be baking?”
“Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty huffs, trying to get his traitorous heart to beat at a normal speed. “I could bake these in my sleep. And besides, I’m not that drunk.”Or: five times Bitty stress baked, and one time he didn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my docs for a very long time so i figured i'd liberate it. i wrote most of it before the last update, so that's why there's some canon divergence. warning for a little bit of bullying, but nothing too traumatizing or explicit.  
> side note: tonight i'm going to a hockey game, and the last time i went to a game i posted a fic that day and my team won, so. that may or may not be the reason i'm posting this. superstition is weird. fingers crossed!  
> UPDATE the pens won. does this mean i have to post a fic before every game i go to? dang

_**1\. drop biscuits**_  
Eric Richard Bittle comes home from his first day of kindergarten with his thumb in his mouth and tears in his eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Suzanne says, gathering Eric into her arms.

“I missed you, Mama,” Eric says, his lower lip trembling.

“Aw, Dicky, I missed you too,” says Suzanne, because it’s true. It was just a few hours, but she missed her little ray of sunshine skipping and tripping around the house. “Kindergarten’s scary at first, but you’ll love it soon, I promise.”

Eric sniffs. “Okay.”

Suzanne sets him down on the counter. “Do you want to help me make these biscuits?” she asks, because that never fails to cheer him up. Eric nods vigorously, so she hands him the bowl with the flour-baking powder-salt-sugar mixture and drops the cubed butter in. “Just mush around the butter with the flour until it’s all mixed up, and then make little clumps and put them on the pan.”

Eric sticks his hands in the dough. “Like play-doh!”

Suzanne laughs. “Exactly!”

She starts cleaning up as Eric sets to mixing. She’d give him a pastry blender, but his hands are still a little clumsy, and she’d rather he keep all his fingers.

By the time Suzanne’s unloaded the dishwasher, Eric’s done, proudly displaying his lopsided biscuits, chubby fingers coated in a sticky layer of butter.

Suzanne grins. "We'll make a baker out of you yet, Dicky."

 

 _ **2\. sugar cookies**_  
Eric wakes at five the morning before his first competition.

The competition’s in Atlanta, but it’s not until two in the afternoon; they’ll drive over at eleven to give themselves time and to let Eric get a feel for the rink before he competes. He could have slept for another four hours—hypothetically, at least, because he couldn’t really sleep anyway.

He’s stretched, and he’s even run through his routine several times, as best he can on solid ground. He’d call Katya, but even she’s not awake at this time of day. It’s no use.

His stomach is doing flips that would get him disqualified in international competition.

Luckily, Eric’s recently been given permission to use the oven on his own and, after confronting his fears about burning the house down, he made his first batch of biscuits by himself.

(He almost asked for an Easy-Bake oven for his birthday, but then realized that Easy-Bake ovens are blasphemous to the very institution of patisserie. Eric's only ten, but he still knows he needs to protect the integrity of the baked good.)

His MooMaw’s sugar cookie recipe is one of the several recipes he has memorized; he’s still not the best at measuring things out, but he does his best, and the cookies that come out of the oven near rival those of his grandmother.

Eric definitely earns his excellent score, but the cookies he gives to the judges, still just a little bit gooey in the center from that morning, certainly don’t hurt.

 

 _ **3\. blueberry pie**_  
_Apple pie,_ Eric thinks. _Apples, six of ‘em, fresh if you can get them, granny smith or gala, and cinnamon and nutmeg and sugar and starch. Peach pie, best in the summer—_

Eric’s train of thought is interrupted by a loud clanking in the wall. Probably just a pipe, or something, but Eric is only twelve and alone, trapped in a utility closet at night in an empty building, and he’s scared. He shudders.

Georgia’s the south, but February’s still February and the linoleum floor is unpleasantly cold, and Eric can’t lie on his sweater because then he’d have to take it off and he’s only wearing a t-shirt underneath.

Eric sucks his teeth and tries not to think about how he got here.

_Strawberry-rhubarb, because strawberry by itself is too sweet—_

Someone has to notice he’s gone, eventually, right?

_Blueberry pie, with maple syrup instead of sugar, and lemon juice and flour and a dash of salt—_

Maybe that kid Taylor will say something. He’s always been the nicest one on the team, like that time when Jeremy found those pictures from the 2005 Youth Southern Regionals and pasted them all over Eric’s locker for everyone to see, and Taylor stayed late to help him take them down.

Maybe he’ll tell Coach. 

Lord, Coach is going to be so pissed.

_Pecan pie, with light corn syrup and no orange zest because Coach doesn’t like oranges—_

Coach won’t blame him for this, obviously. He’s so small and can’t exactly defend himself against a group of football players who are all two or three years older than him. Still, the look of disappointment on his face isn’t something Eric wants to see.

The motion-sensitive lights outside the closet click off, and Eric shivers.

At the very least, someone will find him in the morning. By the dim light of his watch, Eric can see that’ll be in approximately eight hours.

 _Chocolate silk pie,_ Eric thinks. _Mousse in a blind baked crust, I can use those pie weights MooMaw got me for my birthday—_

Supper was the slightly squished granola bar in his back pocket.

Bedtime is ten, now, apparently.

Eric pillows his head on his arms as best as he can, and he falls into a fitful sleep, dreaming of an army of anthropomorphic pies slaughtering an army of anthropomorphic closet doors.

 

Eric wakes to a too-bright light, a ringing in his ears, and a gruff voice saying, “Jesus Christ, kid.”

Blearily, Eric lifts an arm to guard his eyes from the sunlight. “I’m sorry, sir, I—”

“No, kid, don’t apologize.” The custodian extends his arm to help Eric up. “Are you all right? Who did this to you?”

“That, uh. No one?” Eric stretches and winces. He’s sore as hell. Linoleum is the devil’s material, he decides.

“You got locked in this closet, overnight, by yourself?” the custodian asks, skeptically.

Eric rubs the back of his neck and laughs nervously. “Um. Yeah?”

The football team doesn’t like snitches. They’ve made that abundantly clear.

“Well, uh, maybe sleep in your own bed next time, junior,” the custodian says, and Eric’s grateful he doesn’t continue his line of questioning.

When he gets home, he tells his mama that he had an impromptu sleepover with one of his figure skating friends. No use in having her worry even more about him.

He bakes a pie, blueberry maple, and fantasizes about throwing it at Jeremy’s stupid, smug face.

 

 _ **4\. vanilla cupcakes**_  
"Lady and gentlemen," says Holster, perched atop a kitchen chair, to a grand audience of three. "Operation: Get Bitty Laid is a go at tonight's kegster."

Bitty resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Holster, I'm right here. I can hear you."

"You're welcome to join the mission, Agent Bittle."

"No, thank you," says Bitty, and goes back to washing the dishes.

"Anyway, as we all know, Bitty's date for Winter Screw didn't exactly work out. And that's totally on Rans and me.”

“To be fair, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would throw up on a dude’s shoes,” Ransom chimes in, “but I guess you can never know.”

Bitty snorts. “You can say that again.”

Holster coughs. “SO. Tonight. Your mission, agents, should you choose to accept it, is to accept the following mission: find an eligible bachelor worthy enough to date our young Mr. Bittle, and invite him to the kegster.”

Bitty groans.

“Obviously, you’ll be hard-pressed to find someone who actually deserves to date Bitty, but we’re trying to find at least a decent guy, so to help you out, the criteria are as follows. ONE. Very unlikely to puke on one’s shoes. TWO. Likes baked goods. And THREE. Absolutely not a lax bro.”

“Fuuuck the lax bros, but not in that sense, am I right,” Shitty crows.

“Holtzy, I love you, but are you sure Bitty’s down with this?” Lardo asks. “I know you know you need consent for shit like this.”

Bitty feels an immense surge of affection towards Lardo. He’s only known her for a couple of weeks, so far, but he’s really taken to her. She’s just so considerate and capable and manages to be both gentle and a badass and adept at dealing with sometimes belligerently drunk hockey dudes. And she always seems to know what Bitty’s thinking.

The truth is, Bitty’s so, so grateful to be out and to have friends that accept him and support him and love him, and to have friends that go to such lengths to make sure he feels happy and welcomed. Friends that host parties just to find Bitty someone to hook up with. It’s just. Right now, he’s not sure he’s ready for this. It’s all so… so new?

And the other thing, Bitty thinks, is that. Well. He’s not sure he has a type. But he’s nearly one hundred percent sure none of the boys the team’ll come up with will be the one he wants.

But it’s still really, really nice of them.

“Thanks, guys, I really appreciate it. Just… no rugby players, please, though?”

“What’s this about the rugby team?” It’s Jack, leaning against the doorpost, looking, honestly, unfairly handsome for someone who just returned from the gym. 

“We’re trying to set Bitty up with someone who won’t puke on his shoes,” Ransom says, and Bitty feels his face turn bright red.

“Well. No lacrosse players, either, eh, Bittle?” Jack smirks, and Bitty would be fine going into hiding forever, thank you very much. 

 

Five hours and three drinks later, Bitty’s crowded against the wall of the living room having his ear talked off by a cheerful and admittedly very cute guy from the crew team. (This is one of Holster’s picks. He has a lot, and they’re all from the crew team, for some reason.) He’s got blonde hair, which isn’t really Bitty’s thing, but—whatever, he’s tall and has blue eyes and Bitty’s pretty buzzed and doesn’t really want to hear much more about rowing conditions on the Samwell River anyway so it doesn’t take much to lean forward and press their lips together. The guy—Theo, Bitty remembers—responds enthusiastically, if a little sloppily.

Bitty pulls back, panting a little, about to suggest that they move somewhere more private because PDA isn’t pleasant for most parties involved, when he sees Jack over Theo’s shoulder and freezes. The fact that he's here, at the party, is unusual in and of itself. Jack’s across the room, leaning against the wall, his hand on the arm of a girl that even Bitty can tell is really cute. Jack’s head is ducked towards her and it looks so intimate and Bitty’s suddenly no longer in the mood to hook up with this practical stranger.

Bitty stumbles away, apologizing profusely—he knows he’s being extremely rude, and he should probably ask for Theo’s number or something, but it’s not like he’d ever call anyway—and seeks solace in the safety of the kitchen, trying to catch his breath. The rest of the house is packed, and loud, and overwhelming, but the kitchen feels safe and cozy, the music emanating from the other rooms muffled.

Bitty doesn’t live in the Haus—not yet, at least—but he still makes sure the kitchen is always well stocked. (Honestly, he doesn’t know how these clueless boys took care of themselves before he got there. One really only needs so much sriracha.) Tonight, he’s definitely in a cupcake mood, and he’s very glad he has the ingredients. Just plain, vanilla cupcakes; nothing fancy, just a distraction.

Here’s the thing. Bitty’s known he was gay for a very long time. Growing up in Georgia, though, he was so far in the closet he was practically in Narnia. There were crushes, of course, but they were never realistic. Bitty was able to compartmentalize those infatuations, stick them somewhere behind a locked door labelled “never touch.”

And now, at Samwell? Sure, it’s one-in-four, maybe more, but Bitty doesn’t really have friends outside of the hockey team. And of course they’re all so, so welcoming, but they’re just so dang straight. He’s living openly, and he still gets crushes on straight boys, but now it’s just harder to keep it in check. He’s let his guard down.

It’s difficult.

“Cupcakes? Really, Bittle?”

Bitty startles, tripping backwards right into—fuck, right into Jack, whose strong hands grip his elbows to keep him from falling. Bitty wrenches himself from Jack’s grasp and turns around just as Jack says, “aren’t you a little too drunk to be baking?”

“Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty huffs, trying to get his traitorous heart to beat at a normal speed. “I could bake these in my sleep. And besides, I’m not that drunk.”

Jack’s standing entirely too close. Bitty can feel his body heat through his apron. “Hm,” Jack says. “You’ve got flour on your face, Bittle.” He swipes at Bitty’s cheek with his thumb and Bitty’s mouth goes dry.

He might not be too drunk to bake, but he’s definitely too drunk for this.

“Um,” Bitty says. He swallows. “I have to put these in. Excuse me.” Jack steps back as Bitty slips the cupcake pan into the oven, his gaze not wavering.

“So, any success tonight?”

Bitty squeaks. “What?!”

“Any guys who aren’t throwing up on you?” Jack’s grinning.

“Jack Zimmermann, you’re chirping me. That’s not allowed. I’m in a fragile state. I’m drunk!”

“I thought you said you weren’t drunk,” Jack says. He’s still leaning against the counter, and Bitty has to look up to talk to him; Jack’s eyes trail across his face.

“Oh, you—” Bitty sighs and moves to start dumping the measuring cups and bowls into the sink, hip-checking Jack out of the way.

“Don’t tell Holster I said this, but you can do so much better than the crew team.”

Fuck. Bitty hadn’t—well, what was he expecting, making out with some boy in the middle of the living room? He’s honestly surprised a grainy picture hasn’t showed up in the group text. “No crew team, no rugby team, no lacrosse team,” Bitty manages to say through his mortification. “I’m running out of sports, here.”

Jack laughs. “We’re a D-I school. There are a lot of other teams with eligible bachelors for you, Bittle.” He steps away from the counter. “I should go sleep now. Early morning tomorrow, right?”

“Wait, but what about your date?” Bitty blurts out, and immediately regrets it. Why can’t he think before he speaks, jesus.

“My… date?” Jack looks very, very confused.

“That girl you were talking to? Over in the other room?”

“Oh, uh, Julie? She’s in one of my classes this semester. We’re not dating, Bittle.”

“Ah, right.” Bitty’s face is on fire.

Jack laughs. “Try to get some sleep, Bittle. And don’t burn the house down, eh?”

And just like that, Bitty’s alone in the kitchen.

When the timer dings, Bitty takes an entirely too-large bite of unfrosted cupcake and collapses back down onto a chair.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think he was being flirted with.

Straight boys are _so_ confusing.

 

 _ **5\. oatmeal raisin cookies**_  
Junior year is currently kicking Bitty's ass, and Ransom’s got his med school applications and Holster and Lardo have got post-grad career plans to worry about, so they can’t watch every single Falconers game. When they’re playing against big divisional rivals, though, they always try to make the time for it. Like tonight, for example.

The Falcs are playing the Whalers and Bitty is _freaking out._

The Whalers play a fast, physical game normally, but it’s nearing the end of the regular season and they’re closing in on the Falcs in the standings, so the stakes are even higher.

The game’s a frenzy from puck drop and Bitty’s on his feet every time a Whaler gets as close as a meter to Jack.

“Bits, you need to chill,” Lardo says from where she’s draped over the couch. “Join the cuddle puddle.”

The Cuddle Puddle (patent pending) is Lardo, Ransom, Holster, and Nursey tangled together, probably all very stoned, and Bitty’s not even sure any of them could extract themselves, much less allow another person in. Besides, Bitty’s very busy yelling at the TV, and he tells them as much.

“Yelling at the TV will do nothing,” Holster says sagely, like the hypocrite he is. Bitty knows for a fact that Holster was shouting at the Bruins game just last week.

“Yeah, but you aren’t—” _dating a player on the team,_ Bitty was about to say, but he can’t tell them just yet. And Holster might be dating a Bruin, for all Bitty knows. Maybe Zdeno Chara. Bitty laughs a little at that mental image.

“C’mon, Bits,” says Ransom. “The cuddle puddle will cure all your worries.” Yeah, he’s definitely high, but Bitty settles down next to him and attempts to infiltrate the puddle. 

He gets an arm and about half a leg in before someone on the Falcs scores—Thirdy, Bitty thinks—and Bitty yelps and jumps up, or attempts to, dislodging Ransom in the process.

“All right, never mind, you’re clearly too invested in this game to puddle,” Ransom says.

“Bitty ‘Bits’ Bittle is henceforth banned from puddling, effective through the end of the game,” Holster says ceremoniously.

“How are you _not_ invested?” Bitty’s on his feet again, his face about six inches from the screen, and he finds he can't peel his eyes away. “Also, you know I have a first name, right?”

“Sure you do, Bits.”

“I am invested,” Ransom says. “I just have faith in my man J-Z.”

“Yeah, okay,” Bitty says distractedly.

They make it to halfway through the third period with Bitty only hyperventilating twice, but the game’s still 1-0 and the players are getting desperate and Bitty should’ve known that it was only a matter of time before Jack would get checked into the boards but then it happens and Jack’s not getting up, and—

The cuddle puddle is immediately disbanded. Even Nursey is yelling.

There’s a ringing in Bitty’s ears, everything else kind of muffled, his heart risen to his throat. He stays long enough to see Ouellet get a two-minute penalty—”should have been a major, should have been a fucking match penalty,” Holster yells—and Jack leave the ice, helped by Guy and Thirdy, before he quietly escapes to the kitchen.

This has happened before—Jack goes down, gets injured—so Bitty knows the drill. Don’t worry, wait until Jack calls, which he’ll do as soon as he’s able to.

Still, Bitty needs to take a second to school his breathing before he sets his phone down on the kitchen table. _This happens. This happens. This happens._ A mantra to remind himself it’ll be okay.

It’s like second nature to him now, taking the butter and eggs out of the fridge, measuring out the flour and oats and sugar. He only glances at his phone, like, five times before it starts to buzz. He picks up immediately.

“Bits, I’m fine,” Jack says, anticipating Bitty’s words before he even opens his mouth, and Bitty lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Like, really. I’m not injured at all.”

“Actually okay, or, like, it’s a month from playoffs and we can’t say you’re injured-not injured?”

“I promise,” Jack says, and Bitty lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Just a few bruises, that’s it.”

“Oh, _baby.”_

“It’s a lot better than that time Weber boarded me—”

“Ah la la la,” Bitty says loudly. “Don’t wanna hear it!”

“Bits, you know you don’t have to worry about me that much,” Jack protests, but Bitty can hear the smile behind his voice. “You’re not—are you stress baking?”

Bitty’s silence is suspicious. He knows this.

“Bittle! You want the boys to be out of shape during playoffs?”

“They’re oatmeal raisin! They’re healthy!”

“Mon ange, I know your recipe, and nothing with that much butter can be considered healthy.”

“But… raisins?” Bitty says, but he knows it’s fruitless. (Unlike his cookies. But apparently that doesn’t count.)

“You can tell the boys it’s a cheat day gift from me.”

“They’ll be confused, but I’ll tell them.” Bitty takes the tray out of the oven; he knows the scent will waft over to the other room soon and the Cuddle Puddle will be drawn, like a magnet, to the kitchen. “I should get goin’, but how’d the rest of the game go? I had to leave, uh, obviously.”

“We won,” Jack says. “If we win again on Sunday, and the Canes lose in regulation, we clinch a playoff spot.”

“Wow, Jack, that’s so great!” Bitty’s so proud he feels he might burst.

“What’s great?” Nursey walks into the kitchen, no doubt led by his nose. “Hey, Jack,” he says in the vague direction of Bitty’s phone.

“Uh, that’s Nursey,” Bitty says softly, and he hears Jack chuckle on the other side. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? Bye hon—uh, bye, Jack.”

“You guys seem really close,” Nursey says around a bite of cookie as Bitty sets his phone down. “Must be nice.”

Bitty smiles softly. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It really is.”

 

 _ **+1. maple-crusted apple pie**_  
The hand creeping under Bitty’s apron, trailing across the skin that’s peeking out between his tank top and his cutoffs, is making it very difficult to focus on this lattice.

So are the lips on Bitty’s neck.

“Jack, if you want to eat this pie at some point in the future— _ngh_ —you’ve gotta— _mmm_ —stop that eventually.”

Jack hums, which may be an acknowledgement, but then he pulls Bitty flush against his chest and Bitty has to suppress a shudder.

“Mr. Zimmermann, you’re a menace.”

Jack concedes and pulls away after one more nuzzle to the head. “Apple pie, right?”

Bitty grins down at the pie plate. “What else?”

“I have something for you, then, before you put it in the oven.”

Bitty whirls around. Jack’s holding out an innocent-looking brown paper bag, and Bitty throws him a questioning look as he takes it and unfolds the top. It’s a familiar heady scent that Bitty recognizes immediately. “Maple sugar?”

Jack’s blushing. It’s a very cute look on him. “My aunt made it. She, uh, she has a few maple trees on her property. I just thought you’d like it, because it’s so difficult to get maple sugar around here?”

“Oh my god, Jack, it’s perfect, thank you so much!”

“And now you can put it in the first pie of this kitchen,” Jack says.

“First pie? Jack, I’ve made, like, hundreds of pies here.”

“That seems like a bit of an exaggeration,” Jack says, eyes crinkling, “but no. I meant—you’ve only just officially moved in, so, it’s like the first pie in your kitchen—”

Jack might have had more to say, but he’s interrupted by Bitty flinging his arms around his neck and burying his face in his chest.

“I love you so much,” he says, muffled, probably getting Jack’s shirt wet with tears. Happy tears, of course.

“I love you too,” Jack says, wrapping his arms around Bitty and resting his chin on his head, and they stay like that until the oven pings to signify it’s preheated.

“Better get that,” Jack mumbles into Bitty’s hair, and Bitty reluctantly extracts himself. He brushes the lattice with an egg wash and sprinkles some of the maple sugar on top. Jack’s looking on fondly, and when Bitty goes to put the pie in the oven, he playfully nudges Bitty’s hip. Startled, Bitty very nearly drops the plate, and he splutters. 

“ _Excuse_ you, my kitchen is no place for checking!”

“Your kitchen,” Jack says, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm hockeylesbians on tumblr (and in real life tbh)


End file.
